The night before, I drew a map of my neighborhood for a visiting friend. As I sketched out the grid and the landmarks, I discovered exactly how much I had learned about the local geography by wandering around randomly for thirty-seven hours: I knew where everything was, but couldn’t remember most of the street names.

I went walking early enough in the morning that the sanitation department hadn’t picked up the garbage yet; some public trash cans were overflowing, spilling rubbish onto the sidewalk. Even in the dawn hours, there were quite a few other people walking around. Some of them didn’t seem to be heading to work, just ambling aimlessly. Jetlagged Europeans on vacation?

I wandered around the financial district, looping and doubling back. I decided the local businesses were roughly divided into two categories: those catering to the very rich, and those servicing their minions.

I slowly zigzagged north to Fulton Street, and then walked through the housing projects, enjoying how the dirty snow had melted to reveal lush green grass. The neighborhood gradually woke up; there were more people clutching takeout coffee cups, more cars, more noise. Distant church bells chimed, telling me it was 8 am. I took one final loop north, and then concluded my walk just one block from my home.